by Nancy Star
It was the Ask Roxie readers who were having the
toughest transition. They’d been slow to adjust to the new tone of the column, written by Lane’s replacement, her
friend Jem, now known as Roxie Three. Lane was quick to reassure her friend that the readers would come around;
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they always did. She also shared the good news—which
Sam had shared with her—that Ask Roxie, as written by Jem, was attracting new readers, who skewed younger.
This was great for the Guild. And with Sam back in
charge and Bert gone and replaced, what was good for
the Guild was good for Lane.
As for how to celebrate the move back into the pond
house, Henry didn’t hesitate. “First the carousel. Then
donuts.”
By the end of his first autumn on the island, Henry
was a frequent rider on the Flying Carousel in Oak Bluffs.
He even had a favorite, a gray horse named Moshup. He
hadn’t yet managed to grab one of the brass rings that
would win him a free ride, but on this cool May night,
when the carousel was still only open on weekends, he
seemed confident things were going to go his way.
While Henry waited on line, Lane and Nathan stopped
to see Zoltar, the mechanical fortune-teller. Nathan fed
a dollar into the slot; Zoltar’s eyes moved and settled on Lane’s.
“You are most beloved,” Zoltar proclaimed, “when
you are happy.”
“Sorry to disagree with you,” Nathan said. “but she
is beloved, no matter what.”
They got to the carousel just as Henry boarded. As
soon as the Wurlitzer began, Henry stood up in the stir-
rups and put one of his knees on the horse.
“What is he doing?” she asked. “He’s going to fall
off.” She opened her mouth to call to him but Nathan
put his hand on her arm to stop her.
“He won’t fall off.” Nathan looked sheepish and ad-
mitted he told Henry to do that. “At his size, that’s the
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only way he’s going to reach the brass ring. He has to put up a knee and lean. It’s a trick I learned from Leo. He’s
holding on tight. See?”
It took some work for her not to call out a warning.
At one point she had to close her eyes and silently repeat, He won’t fall off, he won’t fall off, he’s not in danger of falling off. Then Henry’s voice cut through her thoughts.
“Mom!”
Her eyes snapped open.
“Look! I got it!” He held up a brass ring.
Lane applauded. Nathan gave a high five to the air.
Henry caught it, put it in his imaginary pocket, and
deposited his brass ring on the spoke between the horse’s
ears. He got the brass ring three times that night. At one point, Lane asked Nathan if he’d paid someone off, because what were the odds?
Nathan laughed. “I think he’s just having a lucky day.”
After the third win, Henry got off the carousel. He
walked over and asked Lane if she wanted to see his last
brass ring up close.
“Don’t you have to hand it in for a free ride?”
He looked at Nathan, who said, “He’ll get his free
ride in a minute. Take a look.”
There was something odd in Nathan’s tone that she
couldn’t place. She ignored it and told Henry, “Okay.
Let me see it.”
Henry peeled open his hand and Lane stared, con-
fused. It wasn’t a brass ring. It was an engagement ring.
Nathan kneeled down and took her hand. After she
said yes, he asked Henry to help him slip the ring on his
mother’s finger.
h h
h h
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After Henry washed up that night, he came into his room
and saw his mom on his bed. In her lap was a box.
“I ordered this months ago,” she told him and handed
it over. “For you.”
Henry traced the carving on top, a large tree with
many branches and no leaves. At the bottom were the
initials A. D. He thought about it for a moment and then said, “Aaron Dash?”
She nodded.
“What is it?”
“It’s called a memory box. If you want, you can use
it for memories about dad. You could put in things Dad
gave you, like your flashlights. Or you could use it for
stories. We could write down some of your favorite Dad
stories. You could illustrate them.”
“We could both illustrate them,” Henry said. “I
could show you how to use the watercolor dots Nathan
gave me. They’re really easy to use. Would you like to
do that?”
“I would love to do that.”
Henry nodded. Then his face shifted. “Can I ask you
a question you might not like?”
“Of course. We decided that, remember? You can ask
anything, anytime.”
“Okay.” He seemed to relax. “Do you want to put
your letter inside? The one dad wrote to you? Unless you
didn’t keep it. Because you didn’t like it. Or because you didn’t want to move with it. Rule Number Five.”
Lane smiled. “I don’t believe in those rules anymore.
And thank you for thinking of it. I did keep it. At first
I couldn’t find it, which made me upset. That’s how I
realized how much I wanted to keep it.”
“Where was it?”
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“In the back of my night table drawer. Exactly where
I put it when you gave it to me.”
“Is it a happy letter? Or a never-give-up letter? Or a
sad letter? You don’t have to say.”
Lane thought about how to answer. The letter, which
Aaron had written only weeks before his death, was short.
Four sentences that she had read enough times to know
by heart. In it, Aaron apologized for his drinking and
then explained that Brielle was getting him information
about a rehab clinic that had helped several of their friends from AA. That was the most surprising part of the letter, that Aaron had been going to AA. In the letter he
declared his intention to go to the clinic and get sober.
Then he declared his love for her and Henry. Short and
bittersweet.
“I’d say yes, it’s a never-give-up letter,” she told Henry.
“Happy and sad, both at once.”
“Can I read it?”
“Yes. When you’re older.”
“Will it make me sad?”
“Probably. But you know how sad goes. It doesn’t
last forever.”
“Is that a rule? Do we have any rules?”
Lane twirled one of Henry’s curls. “We have safety
rules. Always wear your helmet on your bike. Always
buckle your seat belt.”
“Don’t look at an eclipse without special glasses,” he
added. “Never go out on a roof.” He looked at her. “Is
that okay to say?”
“Everything is okay to say. Those are all good rules.
No looking at an eclipse without glasses. No going out
on a roof.”
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“I have another one,” Henry said. “But it’s not about
safety.”
“What’s it about?”
“It’s about, never go to bed without a goodnight kiss.”
“Perfect. That will be our main family rule.” Her
phone buzzed. She checked to see who it was. “Good. I
have a surprise for you.”
“A good one?”
“I think so. Want to come and see?”
They got downstairs just as Nathan walked in. “Sorry
I’m late. I got stuck in ferry traffic.” He kneeled down
and let loose the small puppy that had been pawing at
his arms. “I’d say this little guy is pretty eager to meet you, Henry.”
“The puppy’s for me? For real?”
“For real,” Lane told him.
h h
h h
Later, while Nathan was downstairs getting the training
crate open and filling up the water and food bowls, Lane
lay down next to Henry in his bed and answered a slowly
petering-out round of questions.
“When Grandpa Marshall and Grandma Sylvie come
for Thanksgiving, will they want to play with the puppy?”
“Yes.”
“Do they like puppies?”
“I hope so. But if they don’t, that’s okay. Not every-
body has to like our puppy. You know who definitely
likes puppies? Cousin Melinda. Aunt Shelley told me she
can’t wait to play with him. Now you all you have to do
is figure out his name.”
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“I have two ideas but I can’t decide which one to pick.”
“What are they?”
“The puppy’s name is either New Norman or Old
Norman.”
“That’s a tough one. Those are both great names. You
could just call him plain Norman.”
“Okay,” Henry said. “That’s his name. Plane Norman.”
He rolled on his side. “Can Plane Norman sleep with
me tonight?”
“He’s not quite ready for that yet,” Lane said. “But
soon.” She turned off the light and said goodnight.
“Wait—remember the rule?”
Lane came back and kissed Henry’s head.
Then he kissed hers. “Love you, Mom. Forever, or
at least for now.”
“Love you, Henry. Now and forever.”
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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The author is grateful to all who offered support dur-
ing the years of writing this novel. It takes a village. In particular:
To the real-life and beloved former Dear Prudie advice
columnist, Emily Yoffee, who agreed to talk to a writer in her early days of conjuring a novel, my eternal gratitude.
Lane Meckler is an invented character who lives only in
this novel (and in the imagination of this novel’s readers) but her good heart and best intentions were inspired by
Emily’s kindness, compassion, wisdom, and good humor.
For sharing other expertise thank you to: Debbie
Miller, Barbara Lennon, and Fran Legman. I am also
grateful to a brilliant early reader with a great critical eye and a keen sense of humor, who sadly is no longer around
to read these thanks: the luminous Debbie Jurkewicz,
who left too soon.
Deep and everlasting gratitude goes to my fellow scribes
in the Montclair Writers’ Group, who are as rich in talent and fortitude as they are in kindness. For acts of heroism above and beyond what any writer should dare expect,
thank you Alice Dark, Lisa Gornick, Dale Russakoff,
Christina Baker Kline, Laura Schenone, Jill Smolowe,
Cindy Handler. Thanks also to Marlene Adelstein, Jayne
Pliner and Susan Dalsimer.
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To Margot Sage-El, guardian angel of Montclair writ-
ers: thank you for your friendship and enduring support.
Along with your lovely, smart, dedicated colleagues, you’ve turned Watchung Booksellers into a sanctuary for both
readers and writers.
To my wonderful agent, Elizabeth Winick Rubinstein
and to the lovely Zoe Bodzas, thank you for your spot-
on counsel and unwavering support. To the great editor,
Jodi Warshaw, thank you for continuing to be a writer’s
dream, devoted to doing whatever you can to make a
book better. Thanks also go to the Lake Union team,
including Danielle Marshall, Gabrielle Dumpit, Dennell
Catlett, Rosanna Brockley, Nicole Pomeroy and their
hardworking dedicated colleagues.
I am so lucky to have the abundant good fortune of
sharing my life with the huge-hearted lovelies who make
up my family. To Izzy and their partner Raquel, to Lizzy,
Peter and sweet Jonah and Penelope: no one could invent
a more wonderful home-team than you.
Finally to my husband, Larry—soulmate, first reader,
first critic, best champion, bread-baker and all around
stalwart force of good, you know it is not hyperbole to
say this: I could have done it without you, but I wouldn’t want to.
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Nancy Star is the author of the best-
selling novel Sisters One, Two, Three,
a Publishers Weekly top ten print book
and Amazon Kindle bestseller of
2016. Her previous novels, which
have been translated into several
languages, include Carpool Diem,
Up Next, Now This, and Buried
Lives. Her essays have appeared in
the Washington Post, the New York
Times, Money, and Family Circle.
Before turning to writing fiction full-time, Nancy worked
for over a decade as a movie executive at the Samuel
Goldwyn Company and the Ladd Company, dividing
her time between New York and London. She now lives
in New Jersey and Martha’s Vineyard with her husband.
For more information, visit www.nancystarauthor.com.
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